


le soleil toute l'année

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beach Holidays, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Seine, Swimming, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: There is no conceivable reason why a week-long vacation with Valjean and his family should be anything less than a tiresome obligation. Javert can scarcely imagine why he ever would have agreed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'm going to get back to the cowboys this week, but have some dumb vacation fluff in the meantime. Title taken from a tourism poster for Côte d'Azur.
> 
> Also featuring this [ABSOLUTELY AMAZING JAW-DROPPING FANART](https://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com/post/187198812967/beach-fic) by the uber-talented and ever-lovely Vincent. <3

For the past two years, Javert has learned to accept the fact that there are some things in life which must remain inscrutable. Jean Valjean is one of them. And another, as of last week, is the chain of events, reasons, and excuses which eventually lead Javert here: to an uncomfortable beach chair under a brutal sun with the grit of sand in his sneakers and the reek of cheap sunscreen in his nose, watching Marius Pontmercy try, and fail, to boogie-board.

Out in the surf, the fool of a boy—no, Marius is a grown man, which makes the situation all the more ridiculous—is managing to either bob ineffectually as the waves pass him by, or be pummeled underneath them as they came down on top of him. Each time he goes under with a sort of squawking noise, spitting saltwater, before directing a thumbs-up in the direction of his wife and toddler, who laugh at him from shallower water. 

Having given up chasing the ever-migrating shade provided from their cheap beach umbrella, Javert pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, flicks the packet of papers in his hand into straightness, and tries not to interrogate the question of what on earth he is doing here. 

Of course, Javert knows the _ theory _ of it: namely, that Valjean had put the idea to him and he had conceded, griping and groaning and certainly not pleased to have been asked. There is no conceivable reason why a week-long vacation with Valjean and his family should be anything less than a tiresome obligation. Javert can scarcely imagine why he ever would have agreed.

The next wave rolls up the sand, leaving a milky rime of foam just feet from the toes of Javert’s sneakers. He inspects it with disapproval; it dissolves under his withering gaze. The water is so blue it hurts his eyes, but he isn’t fooled. There are all sorts of disgusting things in the ocean, he is sure, and based on all the spluttering from Marius's direction at least half of the water on this beach has probably been in his mouth.

A shadow passes over him. Javert looks up to find Valjean smiling down at him, a cardboard palette of ice-cream cones held in one hand, squinting against the sun so the crows feet around his eyes stand out in a way that makes him look happy and old. Though they have been here for only a day and a half, Valjean’s skin is already honeyed by a slight tan. He takes the sun well. In it, his hair glows like a wisp of cloud. Javert intensely dislikes the way the man conjures such frivolous fancies to mind. 

Javert glares up at him sternly. “You are in my sun. I understand that sort of thing is of importance in a place like this.” 

“Some people do enjoy being outside.” Valjean pulls his own rickety chair closer, keeping the ice creams level. It is only a matter of seconds before the little goblin Cosette and Marius have spawned takes notice, and swarms them. Javert preemptively reaches for the waterproof portfolio he brought his papers in, where he can hastily stow them when needed. 

“Sneakers,” Valjean observes, nodding at Javert’s feet. “An interesting choice for the beach.” 

"Close-toed shoes are a practical necessity. The feet are second only to hands as for the place most likely to sustain an injury, and I’ve seen at least a dozen potential hazards this morning alone.”

"Of course," Valjean says, nodding his head sagely. "And when they get soaked, and take all week to dry out?"

"I do not intend to get any nearer to the water than this.” The next wave of the tide creeps a little closer, as if in challenge of his assertion.

"At least you have brought your swimming trunks," Valjean says with a smile.

Javert casts a dubious look at Valjean's pants. "You told me swimwear was required."

"I am wearing mine under my clothes.”

"I was not aware that was an option," Javert grumbles. "I feel ridiculous."

"You look fine."

"I am not deferring to your opinion on the matter at this time," Javert says, yet the wry twist of his mouth deepens at Valjean's chuckle.

“You look _relaxed, _actually,” Valjean says. 

Javert makes a dubious noise. He doesn’t feel relaxed; he feels hot and gritty and all too aware of his own obvious discomfort. But perhaps compared to usual mannerisms, this is not so very different. 

As if reading his mind, Valjean’s mouth quirks. “Or you would, if you put away your paperwork. I seem to remember attending your retirement party.” 

“Just because I am no longer being paid for my work doesn’t mean I can’t be of any use.”

“Working off the clock, Javert? Sounds like a breach of labor laws to me.”

“You are very annoying,” Javert sniffs, but sets his papers primly down on the sand all the same. 

Valjean is still watching him without a word, a large grin on his face; he inspects Javert thoroughly, but not critically. Javert can barely imagine what he sees. In deference to the climate Javert has deigned to wear short sleeves, though he has staunchly refused to sacrifice the collar; in deference to Valjean he purchased a pair of swim trunks before he left, grabbing the first swath of nondescript grey in his size without even trying them on. The sound the synthetic fabric makes every time he so much as shifts position is maddening. He feels exposed, vulnerable, longing for the armor of a stiff buttoned-up collar and starched cuffs.

Valjean, on the other hand, looks just as strange out of his usual jeans and sweaters.He wears a t-shirt which Cosette bought for him the day before in the gift shop, and, ridiculously, a pair of thin grey sweatpants. They are so threadbare that the ocean breeze has a habit of plastering them against his legs like paint. Not that Javert has been noticing such a lewd thing over the past few hours. 

At once a shriek from the direction of the water signals the quiet moment between them is at its end. Javert has barely managed to shove his papers into their protective casing before a rain of wet sand churned by tiny, frantic feet splatters over his lap. Valjean is beset, laughing and holding the cones aloft as Nanette grasps for them with salt encrusted fingers. Effortlessly Valjean has his free arm around her, and he is kissing the top of her head as she squirms like a puppy, squealing in delight. Javert does not like children. The smile on his face is just one more inexplicable facet of this inexplicable week. 

“Nanette, you’ll get ice cream all over your grandpapa,” Cosette says as she approaches to curb the little beast.

“She is perfectly fine,” Valjean says, though the cones are drooping dangerously in spite of him—Cosette takes mercy and takes them herself. 

“You will spoil that child,” Javert grumbles, though he distrusts the wry amusement in his own voice; Valjean just grins, denying nothing. 

Soon the ice cream is doled out, and Valjean’s granddaughter thus distracted; Cosette offers Javert one of the cones but he of course refuses. It is far more enjoyable to watch Valjean hastily eat his own, the melting soft serve dribbling over the edge of the cone and making lines across the fingers which hold it. Valjean licks them off the back of his hand. It is thoroughly obscene. But Javert tells himself that if he is on vacation, then surely he might also vacation from the tight hold he has clenched around his own impulses in times such as these—and so he allows himself to study the production from behind his sunglasses, grateful for the way they shield his gaze.

He had woken from a particularly embarrassing dream not a few days before they were all set to leave on the trip, which had involved Valjean wading out of the ocean in a swimsuit so criminally small that its sole purpose seemed to be to draw the eye to the wet and straining bulge Javert’s subconscious had conjured up beneath it. And then, it being a dream, Javert had somehow shrunken down to microscopic size in order to pursue an equally tiny Valjean across the polyester netting inside of the larger Valjean’s swim trunks, and then Nanette had been there asking him what he was doing, at which point he’d desperately tried to explain to her why it was important that the two of them find their way out of the surrealist landscape that was her grandfather’s bathing suit. 

He’d woken up hard and vaguely disgusted with his subconcious’s simultaneous lack of imagination and excess of it, but had begrudgingly gotten himself off to the lingering picture of what it might be like to step into the surf in front of Valjean and cup that warm heavy heat through the damp cling of his swim trunks, the warm sea-salt taste of his mouth. 

His daytime expectations for the trip itself had been decidedly lower. He foresaw the excess of heat and exertion and ice cream leading to no short supply of toddler temper tantrums, and a Valjean who would be too harried and desperate to please his daughter and her offspring to spare much thought for Javert. It would be the best Javert could do, he had decided, to simply ensure Valjean did not run himself too ragged. 

And yet it hadn’t been like that at all; Cosette and Marius had handled the vast majority of their daughter’s fits of temper, and Valjean had divided his time fairly evenly between his family and Javert. They sat together at the tacky beachfront cafe where they ate their oversalted lunches, Valjean in his egregious Hawaiian print shirt, leaning in to swipe fries off Javert’s plate, smirking when Javert slapped the back of his hand. They laid out their towels on the beach together and discussed the book they’d both finished reading, sipping beer. And Valjean had indeed walked out of the surf like some kind of golden sea god, but his purely functional swim trunks meant that Javert could postpone his aneurysm for another day. 

“Will you join us, Papa?” Cosette calls out behind her, already being dragged towards the ocean by Nanette’s tyrannical grip, ice cream smeared down her little snout. 

The smile Valjean turns on Javert made the heat of the day feel meaningless. He watches Valjean lick the last of the ice cream from his lips. A terrible indulgence. "Will you come?" Valjean says, so fondly Javert wishes he could turn himself to sand and be blown away by the wind.

“I do not believe that would be wise."

"Javert!" Valjean chides. "I will not have you sitting here with papers from work when you are meant to be on vacation. And _ retired _.”

“Ought I not spend my vacation how I most wish to?” 

“Perhaps. But I think I’d rather pester you into doing things my way.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“You’re bad at loosening up.” 

“I was not aware that it was a skill.”

“Neither was I, until I met you.” Valjean bumps his shoulder. “Come on. Only for a minute, and then you’re free to go.” 

Javert is grateful once more for his sunglasses. They’re a useful screen between him and Valjean’s soft scrutiny. “Perhaps another time.”

“Javert—”

“Valjean,” he says, a little too sharply—and at once there is no hiding his discomfort. He tilts his head back, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Don't make me say it."

"I can hardly make you do anything if I don't know what it is I'm not meant to be making you do," Valjean said. "If you are self-conscious—"

"No! No. I—that is not it. Valjean, I—I cannot swim."

For a moment Valjean simply stares as if he did not hear. "You cannot swim," he repeats slowly. "Javert, why are you only telling me this now?"

"I did not think it would be relevant," Javert says through gritted teeth. "I did not intend for it to be relevant." Valjean continues to stare. It is fast becoming an irritation. “Stop gawping. I had always intended to learn—there was just never the time, nor a teacher. It can’t be that unusual.”

Valjean shakes his head. “Maybe not,” he says, though there’s a thoughtful expression in his eyes now. He glances towards his family; Marius has at last relinquished the boogie board and is now helping Nanette paddle around on it. They all look very happy. Valjean ought to join them.

Unbidden, Javert thinks of stepping up to meet the crash of the waves, of the water surging hungrily up his ankles and shins; and of course the mere imagining brings a different memory to the forefront of his mind, of darker water on the darkest night of his life, the cold which closed over his head and pushed down his throat, the despair that made him open his mouth to it hungrily. Even in the heat, he shivers; and yet when he looks up it is into Valjean’s warm hazel eyes, and he cannot feel anything but safe. 

“All the same,” he says, looking away, awkward. “Perhaps I would not be opposed to a lesson.” 

Valjean sits up straighter; his face is astonished. “Here?” 

“Well not _ now _,” Javert says hotly. “Not with all these people around to gawk at a grown man being taught how to dog-paddle.” 

Valjean dips his head but cannot wholly disguise his smile. “Surely a minor blow to your pride would be worth learning a valuable skill.”

Javert snorts. “Well, I have made it this far in life without it. And it is not as if I intend to go throwing myself from some other—”

He breaks off, mortified, the heat rushing to his face. Valjean’s expression had crumpled as if beneath a blow. A fool. Such a fool, to have dragged such dark memories into the sunlight here. “Jean, I am an imbecile, I did not think—”

“It is fine.” Valjean’s hand catches his, and presses it; that alone stills Javert’s apologies. For a moment the two of them are still—Javert stares at their clasped hands, his throat working dryly. At long last Valjean squeezes him one last time and then lets their hands drop to the sand.

“What about tonight?” he says, and the thread of their previous conversation had been so thoroughly cut that Javert is not immediately certain what he’s speaking of. “I had thought of walking along the beach after dark. If you were to join me…”

Valjean trails off. Perhaps he cannot bear to put the suggestion his silence entails into words. If Javert were to join him—alone, on the beach, with no one to see—if Javert were to allow Valjean to lead him to the gentled edge of the waves, to let the water rise up his body like a caress.

Javert swallows. He pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, and fixes his eyes on the antics of Valjean’s unlikely family. 

“Very well,” he says gravely, though the grin which spreads across Valjean’s face awakens an answering feeling in his chest. He does not express it in any way he’s aware of; but somehow he believes Valjean can perceive it all the same. 


	2. Chapter 2

The evening passes in a way which has become familiar. 

There is the constrained chaos of dinner, the tangle of limbs passing tubs of take-out Indian food around the table of the Pontmercy family beach house, adults speaking over each other and Nanette speaking over them all. Javert has been seated beside Nanette, and he has no doubt that Valjean is to blame—that wide-eyed obliviousness Javert has long realized is a mask for a rather devious sense of humor. She chatters at him for half the night, spewing half-chewed breadcrumbs over the gingham table cloth. He gingerly removes his sleeve from the blast radius. 

“It is rude to talk with your mouth full,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her; she stares up at him, wide-eyed, chewing now silently. As if she had not realized that Javert was capable of speech. It’s only after she swallows that the child speaks again. 

“What is your job?”

“I am retired.”

“What’s retired?”

“It means I don’t go to work anymore.”

“Hm.” Nanette pokes dubiously at her carrots, deep in thought. “I want to be retired,” she decides, to a chorus of adult chuckles.

“You do not have a job,” Javert informs her.

“I go to preschool.”

“That is not a job.”

“Is too.” 

“It is not.”

“Is too.” 

“Repetition is not a valid debate tactic.” 

“What’s a tactic?”

And so it goes, for the rest of the night; in truth, it is not so awful. For at times Javert will look up to find Valjean staring at him from across the table, his eyes creased in fondness and a soft smile hidden behind the interlaced fingers propped before his mouth. It is possible that Javert would do this much and more simply to put that look on Valjean’s face.

When at last it is time for Nanette to be put to bed, and Marius carries her up the stairs in a swarm of sleepy protestations, Cosette goes to uncork a bottle of wine that, knowing Marius’s family, is probably worth a week of Javert’s pension—but Valjean holds up a hand.

“I had actually planned to go for a walk,” Valjean says. He is looking down as he says it, as if studying the grain of the table before his eyes raise to Javert’s. Only for a moment—and yet those dark eyes burn through him like a hot iron dropped on ice. Javert looks away, biting the inside of his lip, well aware that if Cosette possesses a shred of observational skill then she will immediately draw the exact conclusions Javert can’t help but hope will prove correct. However, when he dares to raise his head once more she is frowning intently at her father.

“Papa, it’s dark out,” she says. “Where would you go?”

“I thought it might be pleasant to walk along the beach. There’s a full moon, and plenty of light.”

“It’s hardly safe to go walking around an unfamiliar place at night alone.”

“He won’t be alone.” Two pairs of eyes turn to Javert; he clears his throat, immediately awkward. “That is to say, I had planned to accompany him.” It is ridiculous for a grown man of nearly twice Cosette’s age to squirm helplessly beneath her gaze, and yet squirm he does—the gratifying warmth in Valjean’s eyes is all that saves him.

“Oh.” She blinks, and then smiles—there is a world of meaning in the sudden brightness of that smile that Javert does not wish to interrogate. “Yes. That sounds lovely. Do you know how late you’ll be—nevermind, it doesn’t matter of course. You can take a key.” Javert wilts before the brightness of her smile. His face is so hot she must feel it from across the room. “Have fun,” she says, hastening after Marius up the stairs; and at last Javert and Valjean are alone, Valjean’s face as flushed as Javert’s feels. 

“Well,” Javert says, as if something has been conclusively and satisfactorily solved; he does not say _ she certainly seems eager to see you married off. _He does not do anything at all, for that matter, which might diffuse the tension which has snapped into place between them, like an elastic cord binding them together has all at once drawn taut. 

“I’ll go get changed, then,” he says; and just like that, it is all set in motion.

* * *

The night is incredibly warm. Javert wanders through the winding streets of the little coastal town, Valjean at his side. At times their shoulders bump as if it is nothing. For now they are silent, and it is a comfortable silence; the houses are a thronging crowd they must make their way through until they are at last at liberty to speak. The fabric of Javert’s swim trunks makes its ridiculous swishing noise with every stride; it is the only sound between them. When he glances over at Valjean he glimpses a smile the man cannot fully repress, and at Javert’s snort they both dissolve into quiet chuckles.

The beach itself is deserted. The sand stretches out before them like a wide white road, the high-tide line a sharp division of driftwood and seaweed and shells. They step over it, wordlessly; there is still some mutual agreement between them, some spell not yet broken. With the sun long gone, the muggy air has turned bearable; a warm breeze wafts off the surface of the water, toying with the loose strands of Javert's hair.

“Shall we walk a ways?” Valjean suggests, and Javert bows his head and says, “Yes.”

Javert is not a fool, and he is not unobservant; nor, lastly, is he naive. He has felt this growing understanding between himself and Valjean for months now. They have spent their lives caught up in each other’s orbit; now, with all the ponderousness that the span of their relationship warrants, they have begun to drift into each other’s gravity. Valjean feels it too; Javert can see it in his eyes.

It probably looked foolish to anyone from the outside, the two of them blushing and shying away from each other like teenagers instead of acting like two grown men with a fairly good understanding of what they want. But of course it had never been that simple between them, and well, what was the rush? They’d waited a lifetime already. One summer was nothing at all. And yet until now they have remained content to grow nearer and nearer, long past the event horizon, and neither of them stepping forward to hasten the collision which the laws of the universe have seemingly made inevitable. 

Until now, it would seem. 

The sand shifts under Javert’s sneakers as he pads at Valjean’s side. The tide is low, the waves a faint whisper against the shore. In the moonlight the sea looks like molten metal, all grey and silver and white-hot where the waves break. A prickle of nervousness stirs at the back of his neck, but it’s impossible to say what to attribute it to: the endless expanse of water he has proposed to wade out into, or the arm and shoulder which brush his own with a thoughtless amiability Javert is wholly sure isn’t accidental. They make for a spit of land that shoots out from the beach, the quiet between them not-quite comfortable. 

“You’re very good with Nanette, you know.”

Javert glances up to see Valjean is smiling, not looking at him. “Only because I do not permit her to lord over me like a little tyrant.”

“I suppose I do spoil her,” Valjean says, sounding more proud than repentant. 

“I have to imagine you spoiled Cosette as well.”

“Oh, rotten.”

It is strange to think his way backwards into that time; he himself had spent those years after Montreuil picturing Valjean scheming away in some den of iniquity, gloating over his stolen freedom. Javert would never have imagined him as a father, quietly giving every last piece of himself to a daughter Javert would have torn away from him in an instant. Now he pictures Valjean wandering hand-in-hand with his little girl through some sun-filled garden, twirling her in the sun. Could he have hunted a man like that, had he seen the truth as he does now? He does not want to know the answer. 

“Well,” Javert says begrudgingly. “it would seem Cosette turned out alright. So it’s probably fine.” 

“I’m going to remind you that you said that, next time you complain about giving Nanette too much candy.”

“Then I will be forced to remind _ you _ what happens when you allow that tiny goblin more than a modicum of sugar.” 

Valjean laughs. “I’m beginning to see why Cosette considers you the girl’s second grandfather.”

Javert feels his face heating in surprise. “Does she.” 

A brief pause. Valjean’s steps falter, and Javert finds himself stopping too. As casual as Javert’s words had been, there was no hiding the undertone of emotion beneath them. “Not to say that there’s any obligation, or, well—” Valjean flounders. “I know you are not strictly a part of his family, but, ah, well, by blood neither am I, and—I am sorry, I did not mean to say anything that would make you uncomfortable. If I’ve overstepped—”

“Jean, please shut up.” Hesitantly, Javert settles a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. It’s warm, unbelievably warm beneath his palm and the thin material of his old and careworn t-shirt. “I’m honored that she—you—would think of me like that.” 

Valjean’s face is in shadow; Javert cannot discern his expression until the smile breaks over it, a flash of teeth in the moonlight. “Good,” he says, and reaches up to squeeze Javert’s hand; after a moment they start walking again.

“It goes without saying I don’t deserve it,” Javert says, offhandedly, as if it could be taken as a joke. 

Valjean sighs. “I still don’t think I deserve Cosette,” he says quietly. Javert has to bite his tongue to stop himself from immediately crying out his derision at the idea. “I’m just an ex-con who couldn’t save her mother—what did I know about raising a kid? And I know for a fact I didn’t deserve what Myriel did for me. But that was the point.” 

He falls silent, frowning at his feet as they walk. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes you have to hold onto things, even when you don’t think you’ve earned them. I won’t bring religion into it,” Valjean says, and Javert’s mouth twists wryly—they’ve had far too many theological debates to get started down that path now—”but, well. Sometimes the things you don’t deserve happen to you so that you can become worthy of them in the end.” 

Javert says nothing. What is there to say? He can’t allow himself to believe it; to disbelieve it is equally unthinkable. This is the state of being Valjean has reduced him to, time and time again, trapped between two impossible options, and yet somehow he has learned to bear it. 

“Jean,” he says at last, “why am I here?” Not here on this beach,” he clarifies as Valjean opens his mouth. “I mean here, with your family, on this trip.” He asks it mildly, already half-suspecting the answer. The mixture of chagrin and embarrassment on Valjean’s face before he answers is in truth nearly answer enough.

“Well, I wanted you here. I thought it would be, you know. Fun. And good for us. And, ah.” Valjean rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Cosette suggested it might be a good idea.”

“There it is,” Javert says drily. “You do realize she’s been trying to set us up for months.” 

Valjean snorts. “Right, of course.” Javert gives it a minute. “...Surely she hasn’t.”

“All the meals out with the three of us she had to cancel last minute, the pottery class vouchers, the times she left us in a room together on the flimsiest of excuses—she was one step away from locking us in a broom cupboard together, and if this vacation didn’t do the trick I have a feeling that was her next plan.”

Valjean is laughing now, and Javert’s lips twist in response. Valjean has a nice laugh. In polite company he keeps it to a warm chuckle, but here, alone on the beach with no one for what must be miles, he clutches at his belly and guffaws, stopping to fling his head back with the force of it. Even knowing the unpleasant things that smiling does to his face, Javert can’t help it; he grins along. 

“I suppose she’ll be relieved to finally have accomplished her goals,” Valjean says, and then pulls himself up short as if realizing what he’s said. Javert resists the urge to swallow the dry lump in his throat—it’s the first time either of them have openly acknowledged what is probably going to happen on this nightly foray, and there’s something about hearing the words that makes Javert’s tongue go leaden and his nerves sing in the pit of his stomach in a way that shouldn’t feel as pleasant as it does.

“Yes. I suppose she will,” Javert says awkwardly, his smile twitching nervously at the edges. Neither he nor Valjean are able to look at each other for a moment. The night breeze is warm, wafting off the land towards the sea; it seems to gently urge them forward, towards the placid lapping waves of the bay. 

“This place is as good as any,” Valjean says at last, letting his bag slide off his shoulder but not yet dropping it to the sand. Javert turns away from the water and finds Valjean watching him, hesitant, wary. The moonlight seems to make his hair glow. The urge to reach out and touch it is powerful. Yet still Valjean is waiting, giving Javert the chance to back down. 

What has Javert ever done to deserve that consideration? If Valjean wants something, anything from him at all, it’s his right to reach out and seize it. Javert owes him everything. But Valjean would never take it. 

Instead, Javert would have to give.

“I agree,” Javert says, dropping his own bag. “The water looks calm enough.” And here it comes to what will surely be the most difficult part: better to get it over with at once. As if it is nothing at all to think twice about, he grabs his t-shirt from its back and tugs it over his head, feeling the air slide up over his stomach, his chest, and then his face. He tosses his shirt on the ground and kicks off his sneakers, grateful that he elected against the sweatpants he had almost tugged over his swim trunks. The idea of having to awkwardly stumble out of even more clothing in Valjean’s presence is almost unbearable.

“It stays fairly shallow,” Valjean says, tugging off his own shirt, and—

When Javert was younger, during one of the few years he’d actually been in school, his class of over forty second-graders had been bused downtown to the art museum. Javert had stood beneath the statue of some Greek hero or another, not hoisting a spear or wrestling a serpent like the ones his peers were making lewd jokes about, but rather reclined, contemplative, the marble so soft it looked like moonlight made solid. He’d felt the irresistible urge to reach out and run his fingers over every curve and angle, as if trying to map that perfection in its mind, to hold a piece of it for himself to prove that it was real. 

Of course, when the class chaperone had caught him running his hand over the graceful swell of a priceless relic’s arm, she’d scolded him and herded him out and made him wait in the museum lobby until the trip was over for everyone else. The shame of that moment, of wanting to reach out and sully something so undeserving of his coarse touch, is with him on the beach tonight. 

But Valjean’s body is not cold marble. It is flesh, tanned and weathered and dark where the shadows touched it. Even the marks which would be considered imperfections—the faded tattoos, the scars, the bristling hair—all of these are so beautiful it seems they too must have been created by some artist’s hand, so that others might look on them and marvel at these little details, the parts which make up the masterpiece that is Jean Valjean. Before this, Javert has never known what it was like to want to worship someone’s body before. He wants to worship Valjean with his hands, his mouth, a reverent kiss for every part of it. 

“Javert?” Valjean says, and Javert gives a little start.

“Right. Yes,” he mumbles, and Valjean, the bastard, grins at his obvious awkwardness. The only thing to do is take a step towards the water, or stand here staring and letting Valjean laugh at him until dawn. Or, alternatively, doing something to wipe that goofy grin off of Valjean’s face. His stomach twists nervously at the idea. No—not yet. He steps onto the wet sand just as the tide rushes in. At once he is nervous for a wholly different reason than being alone in Valjean’s presence. The reflection of moonlight just makes the water darker. 

The first chilly wave rolling over the top of his feet immediately chills any erotic fantasies his brain had been desperately cobbling together. He swears and leaps backward on instinct, looking to Valjean in betrayal. “You said it was _ warm. _”

“It was warmer earlier,” Valjean says, half-apologetic, half-laughing. “It’s not so bad, really.” He is already wading further out, the water up to his knees. Javert stares after him like a dog tied up outside of a shop until he realizes that’s probably what he looks like; then he grits his teeth and walks into the water with a curse. It sucks at his ankles, the waves so gentle at night and in this sheltered bay that there’s barely any tug at all; he could be walking out into a pool, or so he tells himself as the cold ocean water sloshes around his knees, his thighs. Valjean is a dark shape against the beaten silver of the water’s smooth surface, waiting for him now, and Javert moves towards him with a wince set on his face as the water makes its way over stomach.

“We can go out together from here,” Valjean offers. “Just a little farther.”

“‘I’m not a child,” Javert snaps, pathetically grateful that Valjean would think to wait. He’s not too proud to put his hand on Valjean’s shoulder as they both turn towards open water; the skin twitches under the cold, wet touch of his hand, but it’s warm as the sand in the sun had been. A moment later Valjean’s hand raises to steady Javert at his middle-back.

His feet skim along the wet, loose sand of the ocean bottom, flinching away from the unexpected hardness of a rock or shell or stick. No way to see where their feet will come down next, each slow step made in blind darkness on faith alone. The water doesn’t feel cold anymore; he feels warm enough to raise the temperature of the sea. 

As if summoned from his subconscious itself, something slimy ghosts over Javert’s leg. He yelps, jerking away, his grip on Valjean’s shoulder tightening; but Valjean must have felt it too, because he reaches down beneath the surface to grab something and drag it, squirming, into the moonlight—

“Kelp,” Valjean says, a little apologetically, and then flings the tentacular plant aside. 

Ridiculously, Javert has no idea what to say as the water laps up the rungs of his ribs. This is Valjean, they’ve walked like this together a dozen times; just because they’re now doing it in water and wearing significantly less clothing than usual doesn’t mean Javert has to shrink away like a blushing virgin, no matter how uncomfortably close that description is to the truth. He is not _ blushing _.

When the water reaches Javert’s mid-chest, Valjean stops. Javert can’t quite make himself let go of Valjean’s shoulder; in point of fact, his grip is hard enough that it probably hurts, though Valjean says nothing. Slowly, Valjean shifts until they’re facing each other, though his expression is a smear of shadow.

“Erm.” Valjean looks awkward now, as if he hasn’t thought this far ahead. “When I taught Cosette to swim, we started with just floating.”

“Okay,” Javert says, unable to keep the suspicious edge out of his voice. The alternative is a nervous edge. 

“So, ah. I’ll just—get behind you—” He does. “—and then you lean back, and I’ll help keep you above water, and you can get used to that for a while.”

“Okay.” Javert can’t really say anything else. Valjean, behind him, gently puts a hand between his shoulder blades. Bare skin on bare skin, and Javert’s brain isn’t sure what to panic about—Valjean, so close, touching him, or the water and darkness that surrounds them all. 

“Just lean back,” Valjean says, so close to his ear. Javert does as he’s told, fighting the impulse that tells him to keep his head as far from the water as he’s able; it creeps up his back in a clammy line, and Valjean’s hand is a warm weight that he knows won’t let him go under. The hand dips lower as he leans further back, and the other reaches up to cup the base of his skull, and then Javert’s feet lift off the bottom and he’s floating. 

The water sucks at his back, his neck, toys with the ends of his hair; Javert forces himself to breathe normally. Valjean holds him up, but the water does too. It doesn't try to pull him under like he thought it might at first. He stares straight ahead without seeing anything, focused only on the sensations of his body; his limbs stiff with tension, and the twin points of warmth where Valjean’s hands touch his skin.

“When you breathe in, you’ll be more buoyant,” Valjean is explaining. “Because this is salt water, when you breathe out you’ll still float. Even so, I’m going to keep my hands here.”

Javert nods, and splutters slightly as the water comes over his chin. Still he doesn’t panic. It’s dark, and Valjean is talking, though Javert isn’t listening anymore. It had been night, on the bridge. The rush of cars hadn’t been so unlike the seething of waves on a beach. But the water had not gently eased up his body that night; it had hit him like a bus when he fell onto it, the explosion of pain so impossible he was sure he had died on impact; but he hadn’t, he’d been alive, and he’d felt the river take him. 

“Javert?” 

“I’m alright,” Javert says, too quickly; he should have steadied his voice first. Valjean’s hands are already starting to bring him up again when he grabs the man’s bicep hard. “I’m _ alright _, Valjean. Please.” 

Valjean hesitates; but slowly, carefully, keeps Javert where he is, and slowly, breath by breath, Javert masters himself.

He can’t recall ever having felt so vulnerable. Valjean’s hands are on his back and the back of his head; if he were to suddenly remove them Javert would have spluttered, panicked, flailed desperately for the bottom. But he knows Valjean would never do that; knows it with a certainty that surprises him. Javert would have considered himself a loyal, faithful man all his life—he had faith in the rule of law, in his orders, in his superiors. But that had been different from _ trusting _ them. He’s not sure he ever trusted anything until Jean Valjean pulled him out of that river. 

And here they are, back in the water. And Valjean is looking down at him, watching Javert trust him. He’s never been so open to another person before, and the worst part is he doesn’t want to _ stop _.

“Is this alright?” Valjean’s voice is so quiet that Javert can scarcely hear it above the sloshing of waves around his ears. 

“It’s alright,” Javert confirms, though not right away. It _ is _ alright, he supposes—remarkably enough. The fear is still there, like players in the shadow of the wings just waiting for their cue to come center-stage, but he can keep them there if he keeps his focus. 

“Do you want to try it on your own?” Valjean must feel Javert tense, for he quickly says, “there’s no need to. It’s not as if we can teach you to swim all in one night—”

“We can try it,” Javert says, because he’ll never back down from a challenge. 

Valjean hesitates, but in the end concedes. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “You can keep your hand on my shoulder.”

Javert nods. He won’t give _ that _ up, at least. He shifts his hand until he has a firm grip, trying not to think about the fact that the slippery warmth he’s holding onto is Valjean, skin and blood and bone. “Ready?” Valjean says, and he nods again—and then the hands are falling away from his back and head, and he draws in a sharp breath in spite of himself; but his hand is on Valjean’s shoulder, an anchor, and degree by degree he relaxes again. The gentle tides rock him gently, and the water doesn’t feel cold anymore; it’s as warm as air, blending into his skin until he can barely feel it. 

He can feel the rise and fall of Valjean’s breathing through his shoulder, warm and steady as the waves. _ I trust you _, Javert wants to say, but can’t; so instead he takes another shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and—lets go. 

He hears Valjean make a quiet noise of surprise, but still lets his hand sink into the water. He is connected to nothing, suspended in a void; as he exhales his head sinks slightly, and the water fills his ears. No sight nor sound nor feeling. He is nowhere, floating, suspended, nothing around him at all; and for a single, terrifying moment, it feels like falling. 

The panic plunges into him like a knife, the sense-memory dragging him down, down, plummeting through the drop, the rush of air just beyond the silence in his ears, the surface of the river flying towards him, a flat, black annihilation. 

His body contorts in the instinct of terror, a hand flinging out—and unthinkingly, his head dips under the water—and then it’s everywhere, water over his head and around his arms and in his throat, the agony of his broken ribs and broken leg and of his lungs screaming against the water inside of them, trying to breathe in to scream more but there was just more water, and more pain—and his stupid, wretched body had come disconnected from his brain and struggled and fought and clawed for life, with him trapped inside of it, wanting only to die, and he’s gasping and clinging to something warm that clings back, and it’s only then that he realizes he can breathe. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I’m sorry—”

“Shh. It’s alright. I have you. Just breathe. It’s alright.” Javert’s heart is beating so hard he knows Valjean can feel it, tapping like the nervous drum of fingers reverberating from bare breastbone to breastbone. He can feel Javert’s ragged breaths, too, from their start in shallow gasps at Valjean’s ear to their terminus in each shuddering exhalation. No part of Javert is unrevealed to him, and he doesn’t shrink away from any of it.

“I’m alright,” Javert says, desperately trying to make that the case. “I just—just for a moment—”

“I know.” Valjean’s arms are tight around him. “I’m going to take us back now, okay?”

Like a spasm he can’t control, Javert’s arms seize tighter around Valjean’s shoulders. He feels Valjean still for a moment, just a moment. “I’m not going to let go of you,” Valjean says softly. And then he walks them back to shore, stopping only when the water becomes so shallow that it’s a question of whether Javert is going to get his own feet under him or let Valjean carry him back. Pride alone makes him opt for the former, though he keeps his arm tight around Valjean’s shoulders and Valjean’s own grip doesn’t once slacken across his lower back. As soon as the sand beneath their feet is dry Javert lets himself topple onto it, a clumsy motion he’d hoped would look less like a weak-legged collapse. Valjean comes down with him, and then they’re sitting together on solid land with the night breeze a lot colder than it felt before, which is as good an excuse as any for Javert’s shivering. 

The silence goes on a long time. The position is uncomfortable; Javert’s legs are tangled beneath him, and Valjean has ended up in a sort of awkward sprawl with Javert half-leaning on him. Still, neither of them move. Now that the fear has passed, Javert knows what comes next: the shame and the anger at himself and at anyone in the immediate vicinity. It had been like that for months after his fall, Valjean coaching his breathing through the panic attacks and getting no thanks for his patient efforts but Javert’s spat curses afterwards. He still doesn’t fully understand why Valjean did it, though he understands a little better. And afterwards, when he’d moved back into his old apartment and had to cope with the terror alone, he’d missed even the shame of having Valjean there to witness it. 

“I’m sorry,” Javert says at last, his voice blessedly steady now. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“Do _ not _ apologize,” Valjean says, forcefully; and it’s only then that Javert realizes, of course. Of _ course _ the man would blame himself. “This is my fault. I should have known better to suggest this, and at _ night, _ alone—”

“Valjean.” At last Javert marshals his limbs so he can sit up and glare into Valjean’s eyes directly. “Don’t.”

Valjean opens his mouth as if to argue, and then closes it again, defeated. His face softens from the mask of guilt it had stiffened into; a hand, rough with clinging sand, reaches up to hesitantly brush Javert’s shoulder. “Alright. I won’t. Are you okay?” 

Javert forces a slow breath into his lungs, and then out again. “Yes. It was just—well. You know.” 

Valjean nods, a little helplessly. Funny, how they can each understand each other so well, and yet at the same time be so uncertain of each other. Knowing where a bruise was didn’t make it any less painful to poke at, Javert supposed. 

“I suppose I won’t be swimming the Channel any time soon,” Javert says dryly, and Valjean can’t help but chuckle. Javert can feel it, the pleasant shiver of muscle and skin moving through the body beside him. The hand on his shoulder slides to his back and begins to move in gentle, soothing patterns, until the sand dries and falls away and it’s just skin on skin. 

Javert sighs, heavier than he meant to. His own shaking hasn’t subsided yet, but it’s different now. He and Valjean stare out at the ocean, the shaken tinfoil of the moonlight on the water--and the stars. They spill out in every direction, mirrored by the distant glimmer of town on the opposite side of the bay. The sea of light spills out all around them, but they sit on an island of darkness. Alone, and safe at last. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” Valjean says softly. As if it were him who had been afraid.

That’s when Javert turns and presses his mouth to the corner of Valjean’s lips, clumsily, more a sloppy peck than a proper kiss because to be fair, Javert hadn’t known he was going to do it until he was already pulling back, blinking in shock, as Valjean turns to look at him with an expression like Javert has just told him some precious and incredible secret, like the sun has risen behind his eyes. 

“I, uh.” There’s a real chance Javert is actually blushing, now. An even more horrifying possibility that Valjean might be able to tell. “That wasn’t how I meant to do that.” 

“Oh.” Valjean keeps staring at him, his mouth going from open in surprise to curling into something much softer, his eyes so dark and so gentle that Javert can’t bear it at all. “And how did you mean to do it?” 

Javert kisses him in earnest then, one hand rising to the side of Valjean’s face to hold him still while he does it, a frown of concentration pulling his brows together, his mouth banging into Valjean’s and then pressing more carefully and then moving in a way that seems about what must be right. Javert has, on occasion, watched TV. He’s observed the theory of kissing even if he’s never had much cause to practice it. He had even, on one intensely mortifying evening after a quarter-bottle of whiskey, blearily read through how-tos on wikihow before cleansing his browsing history with the electronic equivalent of bleach. But none of that had been especially useful, because now, with his mouth against Valjean’s and their noses pressed together, all he can think about is how Valjean’s lips are warm, and how he can feel it curving into a smile.

It’s not too long before Javert pulls back again, licking his lips. Valjean’s eyes dart to the movement.  “Well,” he says, because it’s not clear what one says in a situation like this, “there you go.”

Valjean bursts out laughing. Javert’s frown has already contracted into a scowl, his mouth already opening to tell Valjean exactly what he thinks of that, but then Valjean is coming at him and over him and kissing him again, and if anything it’s even clumsier, Valjean’s mouth on his chin and their teeth clacking together because they both can’t stop grinning, but Valjean’s hands are on either side of him and they’re lying on the beach together, skin to skin, and the sand could open up beneath them and plunge them into an endless fall and Javert wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even notice. He keeps his eyes open even though Valjean is nothing more than a blur of darkness and taste and sound. Above them, in flashes, the stars complete their turn, a revolution thirty years in the making. 

They’ve turned much farther still by the time the two of them begin the walk back, hand in hand, their footsteps swallowed by the sea. 

* * *

Cosette opens her eyes to the sound of the screen door opening. It’s as light as paper and held onto the door frame with little more than spit and a prayer, and it creaks like something from a horror movie in the slightest breath of wind. But footsteps follow shortly, two pairs of them in the foyer; hushed voices, a muffled laugh. 

It’s late, though she doesn't roll over to check her bedside clock. She listens as the footsteps linger a minute, and then ponderously make their way up the stairs. Trying to be quiet, though it’s useless on the beach house’s old salt-warped floorboards. The steps pause on the landing where Javert’s bedroom was—and then both go up the rest of the way together. 

Marius rolls over, nestling his face into the crook of her shoulder with a puff of air to blow her brown curls out of his face. “Finally,” he mumbles. “I thought they’d never get around to it.”

Cosette grins. “That’s my dad you’re talking about, you know.”

“He’s my dad too now, technically,” Marius says, half asleep already. “...Will this mean Javert is also my dad? That’s… uncomfortable.”

She covers her mouth to muffle her laugh, but Marius is already snoring. There’s no other sounds from the house; from the cracked window, the night breeze creeps in carrying the sound of the sea. In the room beside theirs, Nanette dreams soundly. 

Cosette closes her eyes, still smiling, and drifts back into the shallows of sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Policeman (Nearly) Suffers Aneurism At Beach, More At 6.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383189) by [Readaholics_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous)
  * [I had fun once, it was awful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20563655) by [Readaholics_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous)


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